Higher Than A Kite
by theavidreader13
Summary: Greg cut her off. "You're just a kid. How old are you, twenty? And how did you get in here?" He could say for certain he has never seen anyone infiltrate a crime scene before, and definitely not by someone on drugs. "I'm twenty-one and three months, and if you can't figure out how I got in, you're an idiot."
1. Chapter 1

**Gigantic hugs and several thanks to ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome, my beta reader. SHES WONDERFUL!**

 **And I don't claim any credit for Sherlock BBC, as I can't. Shame.**

One warm week in May, two things happened in Gregory Lestrade's life. The first? His wife, Chelsea, gave birth to their second child, a tiny, squabbling baby girl with unusually blonde hair (a trait neither Chelsea nor Greg had.) They named her Kate. The second thing that happened was that he was promoted to Sergeant, and soon he was running after criminals with Detective Inspector Gregson.

For about the span of five weeks everything was just fine. Chelsea and he celebrated his promotion properly, Kate and her older brother Oliver got along well, and Gregson had taken a liking to him. Greg could almost taste the raise.

Then a particularly difficult homicide came in, leaving all of NSY absolutely stumped. Greg told his wife that he was going to be home late, but an anonymous caller tipped the police that the killer was, indeed, the jealous brother-in-law. At first Greg replied to the caller that he was crazy, but then the man proceeded to explain himself in a series of what he named "deductions," and Greg realised he was scarily correct. He was about to ask for some way to identify the caller, or even how the hell he knew all that, but the line went dead.

He arrested the murderer with a sense of satisfaction and came home excited, expecting to be able to surprise Chelsea and his beloved kids with the fact that he was actually home early. With a grin on his face, Greg opened the door to their modest flat and found Chelsea vigorously shagging their next-door neighbor, eighteen-year-old Nicholas, on the living room floor.

Honestly, Greg was just happy the kids weren't there to see it. Chelsea had taken and dumped them off at her sister's so she could spend some "quality time" with her latest lover.

That night, Greg kicked a man out of his house and went on to have the row of all rows with his wife of six years. When their anger had worn out Lestrade felt an emptiness inside and asked the fatal question: why.

That night, Chelsea sat him down with a look of almost pity in her eyes. She told him she had been cheating on him for almost two years and Nicholas wasn't her first, second, or even fifth lover. Then she dropped the bombshell: she didn't even think little Kate was Greg's daughter.

That night, Greg went to bed at a seedy hotel with a rancid smell. He didn't trust himself to not throttle Chelsea in her sleep.

For about the span of five years Greg was involved in one of the messiest divorces of all time. And even though it was _Chelsea_ who cheated on him, she was granted most of the physical custody and all legal custody of their children. Well. Child. Kate was taken from him - " _you're not the father,"_ he remembers Chelsea's attorney saying - without the bat of an eye. Chelsea's testimony of Greg being a workaholic and never having time for the children or his wife ensured that Greg was "awarded" to have his now nine-year-old son, Oliver, on every other weekend, and every weekend over the summer. As for Kate? Never.

It didn't feel like a bloody _award_ to Greg. It felt like a punch to the gut.

In a half-hearted, feeble attempt to forget losing marriage, children and home all in one shot, Greg turned to drowning himself in work when Oliver wasn't there to keep him from going insane. Yes, he knew that doing so only proved Chelsea's point.

No, he _did not_ give a damn.

His demeanor must have betrayed something, though, because DI Gregson would ask all the time what was wrong. Greg would momentarily struggle to fork out a desperately fake smile and say everything was just swell. Gregson, however, was not a senior detective for nothing, and that was how Greg found himself roped into a tiny pub having a pint with his boss a few months after his divorce.

Said pub was a homey little hole in the wall by the name of Sade, and it wasn't half-bad. Greg and DI - no, he had been told to call him "Tobias", not Gregson - sat down in a shaded, empty corner of the bar table, just lounging silently. The bartender, a young redheaded girl around twenty-five, slid over to them. "Whatcha gonna get?" she asked them through the bright pink gum in her mouth. Greg could see Tobias eyeing him. "Two beers, miss. Maybe a shot of something strong for this man here. Needs a little pick-me-up."

The drinks came and they sipped quietly, observing the nightlife around them. Greg appreciated the silence. One thing not on his to-do list was having a talk about his family issues with his superior. That was a line he wished to never cross.

And if Greg spent the whole night drinking and eventually had to be hauled home by said superior completely stoned at one in the morning and, once he left, collapsed on his bed and started to cry, well.

No one should know but him.

XxX

The next week there was a baffling murder that questionably could also have been a suicide. Accidental suicide, of course. The victim had a peanut allergy, and something must have triggered it, making him take his allergen medication. Unfortunately, the victim had ingested an excessive amount of it. In layman terms, he overdosed.

Gregson - "Tobias" didn't really work at a crime scene, Greg had discovered - paced around the very much dead body of twenty-nine-year-old Jared Kalanski, which lay frozen in the kitchen of his flat. "It doesn't make any sense!" he cried, tossing his hands in the air. "Not only are there no peanuts around to trigger his allergy, but the victim _knew_ about it for all his life! There's no way he couldn't've not known how much medicine he was supposed to take. How could he possibly overdose?"

"About the triggering, there's a nut cart down the street, sir," Officer Sally Donovan interrupted. "Incidentally, they sell peanuts."

The DI chewed frustratedly on his lip. "It just doesn't compute. Oh, don't look at me like that, Lestrade! I'm not an old man yet!" Thoroughly chastised, Greg lowered his head to the ground. Gregson continued his little tirade. "This is _murder_. I know what murder is. This is it."

Greg sighed. "Yeah, but we can't form a case on just a feeling that it was a homicide. There's hardly an evidence for arguing that it was murder. Anyone with a tad of law experience looking at this file would say don't go for it."

His superior opened his mouth to retort, but an almost familiar voice cut him off. "Except for the fact that this is, indeed, murder."

The team looked up in shock as a skeleton-thin young man walked onto the crime scene, the lock picks he held betraying how he got in. He had thick, black, curly hair, strangely coloured eyes, and skin much too pale to be considered healthy. His grey hoodie was wrinkled, too big, and dirty beyond belief, and his frayed jeans had multiple sewn patches on them. "This is definitely murder," he repeated himself, gazing at the body.

Suddenly Greg knew where he had heard that voice from. "You're the anonymous tipper." The young man gave a loopy grin and bowed. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service." Greg took a good look at his ragged appearance. He was clearly malnourished, and his eyes - oh. "Are you high?" Greg asked with a twinge of shock. Gregson looked at him, startled.

Donovan threw her face into her hands. "How the bloody hell did a junkie get onto our crime scene, and why is he still here? Get. Him. _Out_!"

No one paid any attention to her, instead focusing on Sherlock's answer. He shrugged. "Would it matter to you if I was? It's my life, after all." His eyes zeroed in on Donovan. "Addiction runs in your family, doesn't it?" She went scarlet. "How the hell-"

Greg cut her off. "You're just a kid. How old are you, twenty? And how did you get in here?" He could say for certain he has never seen anyone infiltrate a crime scene before, and definitely not by someone on drugs.

"I'm twenty-one and three months, and if you can't figure out how I got in, you're an idiot."

Greg ignored the jab. Criminals had thrown worse insults at him. "What did you take? And don't say nothing."

The junkie pranced around the crime scene, the team looking on in disbelief as he surveyed everything around him. Everyone was too stunned that he actually got through security to stop him. "Doesn't matter what I took, I'm still going to solve this before you imbeciles." And with that, he bent over Jared Kalanski and began rattling off his prized "deductions" to the point that Greg was pretty sure the team's brain cells were completely wrecked.

"Freak," Donovan whispered under her breath. Then she looked around at everyone. "Oh, come off it! You don't actually believe him? Lestrade proved he's high, he snuck onto this property, and he contaminated a possible crime scene. Why isn't he in handcuffs yet?"

Gregson pinned her to the wall with a deadly glare. "That's _Sergeant_ Lestrade to you, Donovan, and were you listening? Everything Sherlock said made sense."

Poor Donovan appeared to be blowing steam out of her ears. "He's not even a detective!"

Sherlock Holmes stood to his full height, said, "You're right. I'm a _consulting_ detective," leaned a bit, and retched all over Donovan's shoes.

Greg took him to a holding cell to detox without much preamble after that.

XxX

A week later, Greg sat in a chair facing a barely awake Sherlock. "Go everything out of your system yet?"

Sherlock looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Why did you bring me here?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you straight to the point."

The young man cast a nonchalant glance at the cell's bars. "You still haven't answered me."

Leaning back in his chair, Greg said, "I'm here to offer you a deal."

"A deal?" Sherlock asked quizzically. Greg nodded. "You like crime scenes, don't you? Solving them, specifically. Well, I happen to be a Sergeant at Scotland Yard with access to cases, and I'll give you all of their cold case files and occasionally a present one if it's too difficult as long as you get off the drugs and quit stumbling in high on cocaine. You won't be paid, but you'll have cases."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I hate rehab," he muttered. "Besides, I'm not going to be here much longer."

Greg frowned. "What do you -"

A knock sounded at the door. The young addict scowled. "That's him."

With narrowed eyes Greg opened the door. A tall man with thinning ginger hair and icy blue eyes stood there in a well-tailored suit and a brolly in his hand. "Sergeant Lestrade," he said cordially. "I am here to pick up Sherlock Holmes. I've already paid his bail." He moved to enter, but Greg blocked him.

"Sorry, but I've got no clue who you are and no word came to me that Sherlock's bail has been paid. Can't let you barge in here and take him. Now, who are you again?"

"The British Government," Sherlock sniped from his cell. The man gave no reaction. "I hold a minor position in the British Government. What my name is does not concern you, I am merely an interested party in Sherlock's well-being. I hope you understand I only wish the best for his person. Let me in, Sergeant."

Greg didn't budge. "Against protocol. I need identification and proof you paid his bail."

The man leaned back on his brolly. "What if I told you that if you didn't let me in I could have you fired faster than you could blink?"

Suddenly Greg realised he was dealing with a man of power (politician, perhaps?), and said man of power had a lot of it indeed. Still he stood his ground. "Then I'd leave with a crystal clear conscience."

Silence permeated the air as the man looked at him, a flash of surprise bursting in those stone-cold eyes when he saw the determination in Greg's stance. Sherlock whooped. "Oh, he got you, Mycroft!"

The wheels churned in Lestrade's head. Strange names, that identical level of insufferable arrogance… it clicked. "You're brothers."

Mycroft Holmes schooled his expression. "Yes, Sherlock is my younger brother. May you let me in now?"

Greg looked over at Sherlock, who glared daggers at the wall for a moment or two before finally huffing out a defeated sigh and a "Yes, just let him in already."

The cop finally allowed Mycroft to enter and sat back in his chair, ignoring the so-called "British Government" who stood by the wall and turning his attention back to the young man in the cell. "So do you accept my offer?"

Sherlock picked at his shirt. "Do I have to get clean?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "That's the point. Rehab, preferably, but I don't really care how you get clean as long as you do it. The second I find out you're doing drugs again, though, that's it. No more cases for you."

The self-proclaimed consulting detective studied the holes in his ragged jeans. "Then I accept. But one more condition - I can come on any case I please."

Greg winced. He knew he was risking his job, but deep down he knew the force needed Sherlock Holmes - he was brilliant. "Fine." Sherlock grinned and laid back down in the cell, obviously pleased with his negotiation. Greg turned to Mycroft as he headed for the door. "You can take him now, I guess."

The politician cleared his throat. "Sergeant, what did you offer to make him accept going to rehabilitation?"

Greg shrugged. "Told him he could solve some of our cases. He showed up to a crime scene and solved it for us in thirty seconds, so I knew I had to try to get him to help us."

Something almost like gratitude flickered across Mycroft's face. "Thank you."

Greg smiled. "Best I could do." He walked out the door.

XxX

A month after the meeting in the cell, Greg stepped out of his flat only to be abducted in a black sedan with a pretty woman (far too young for him, though) who called herself Amelia. Greg was about to comment on how he knew that wasn't her real name, but then he was getting kicked out of said sedan and into an alleyway where a familiar-looking man stood. _Great_. "Hello, Sergeant."

Greg heaved himself off of the dirt-covered ground and stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. He knew they were going to make a god-awful stain later, but he didn't care much. "Why the hell am I here?" he asked, staring, utterly annoyed, at the British Government.

Mycroft only chuckled. "To offer _you_ a deal."

The cop tilted his head, unable to be anything but a little intrigued. "Oh, really?"

"In exchange for a fair-sized amount of currency - enough to compensate for a well-off lifestyle, in fact - you will give me information on Sherlock. Where he has been, what he is up to, who he is seeing, et cetera. His rehabilitation will be over within the week, and since he will be working with you, I see it as an opportunity to keep an eye on him with interfering too much."

Greg frowned. "Basically you want me to become Sherlock's stalker?"

"Well," Mycroft replied with a cringe, "I suppose, if you choose to use a certain type of wording."

The sergeant considered his "offer" for no more than a millisecond before shaking his head and saying, "Nope, I'm good."

Mycroft scrutinized him, and Greg felt that same deducing frenzy Sherlock went into come from the politician - but it was directed at him. It was a bit odd. "Are you sure about this, Sergeant? I hold control over _many_ things."

For a moment Greg actually feared for his job - if introducing Sherlock to the team didn't get him sacked, then certainly Mycroft pulling strings from the shadows would - but then he remembered how Mycroft had thanked him in the room and opted for rolling his eyes.

The British Government appeared to approve. "Very well. You will do just fine as Sherlock's handler. And don't worry about your work - rest assured it is in the safest hands. I will be in touch, Sergeant. Good night."

Greg was about to frown at what "in touch" meant when a burlap sack went over his head and all he could see was pitch black darkness. When he came to, he was back in his flat.

He decided not to question Mycroft's methods after that.

XxX

Sherlock strolled onto a crime scene three days after that. It was very amusing for Greg to see Donovan's face fall into a million broken pieces. "Why is the Freak here?" she protested. Gregson scowled at her. He was retiring in a few weeks and did not have the patience to deal with bullshit.

However, Greg had to admit - Sherlock was a madman, despite his awfully clever deductions and high intelligence. He viewed crime scenes and murder as fun, gleefully anecdoted on the team's transgressions, and frequently commented about the brilliance of serial killers. Sherlock had no people skills whatsoever - something that made Greg question how Mycroft ended up being a politician - and genuinely didn't appear to care much about anyone.

But, he was solving their cases at top speed, he wasn't a junkie anymore, and now they were the chief's favourite. And really, could Greg complain about the large bonus in his wages?

As for Sherlock, he seemed pleased enough with their deal. Greg did worry about him a lot, though, because as smart as Sherlock was, in emotions he was truly lost. He was confident about one thing - Sherlock stopped people from being killed, and so he was a great man.

Now Greg could only hope for someone to encourage him to be a good one.

 **Reviews, perhaps? I like them. A lot, actually.**


	2. Chapter 2

The hatred for him begun on the very first day they met. How could she possibly feel anything but hate for him? He was an arrogant, narcissistic, know-it-all prick who irked the hell out of Officer Sally Donovan the moment he _illegally_ stumbled onto the crime scene of Jared Kalanski.

His name was a ridiculous one - Sherlock - and he was obviously a hardcore addict. Memories of a dark shadow looming threateningly in Sally's childhood bedroom and the glimpse of red, crack-ravaged eyes flashed before her, and it didn't take a therapist to see Sally's full-fledged shudder. With a controlled, deep inhale that shoved back in the closet the skeletons of the upbringing haunted by crystal methamphetamine, she asked why the little sod was still hanging around, and was promptly shut up by Lestrade's infuriating benefit-of-the-doubt persona and Gregson's favoritism of the sergeant. Sherlock - what loving parent named their child _Sherlock_ \- proceeded to make a series of audacious claims based on what he called "deductions", all the while shaking from the effects of his high, pupils dilated to near-blackness.

It was immediately clear to Sally that the junkie was not to be trusted, and so she didn't stop to comprehend his so-called deductions before her hands itched to pulls out her favourite pair of handcuffs. All she heard was Sherlock's far-fetchedness as she moved to lock the steel restraints around him, moving to secure the addict in very much the same way she cuffed her negligent mother's drug dealer a decade ago. To her brimming anger, Sally was stopped from enforcing the law by her superiors and one sentence sharply delivered from equally sharp lips. "Addiction runs in your family, doesn't it?" the junkie bit out, nostrils flaring as he glared at her in contempt.

Hot embarrassment in the form of an enraged, angry flush burned its way up Sally's disbelieving face, and she felt like a rug had been pulled out from under her and here she stood, gasping in shock, wincing at the bruise. Dark irises promising slow, deliberate, torturous murder if ever given the chance needled furiously through indifferent dilated eyes, and she hated him because he had effectively shut up and humiliated and _exposed_ her in front of her coworkers, people who had _absolutely no goddamn business_ in what she did (and yes, she counted the overly flirty forensic trainee Anderson in that) which, to Sally Donovan, was _unforgivable_.

But the one thing that stopped her from leaping forward and clawing the smug smirk right off of the addict's face was this: she knew that once the case was over, once the file was closed, once the murderer was behind bars, she would never see the prick again. So she swallowed her tongue, calmed her expression, and did her best to keep her job.

To her utter dismay a couple weeks later, she learned she was wrong.

"Well, that would be all, Lestrade," DI Gregson said. Former DI, actually. His desk and the title were now in the possession of Sally's superior Lestrade, and Sally herself was a sergeant. She couldn't have been happier, but she felt a twinge of sorrow when she looked around Gregson's stripped office. His beloved football memorabilia has been taken from the walls, and the cheesy snowglobe Sally gifted to him God knows how many Christmases ago has vanished from the mahogany-coloured desk. Lestrade looked around the room, hands shoved into his pockets, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "So, this is really it."

Gregson grinned. "Mate, cheer up already. You really going to miss me that much? Donovan, my last order is to make sure Lestrade doesn't croak from sentiment."

All of them laughed, but it was a hollow sound punctured from the blunt truth that this really was it.

Gregson packed up and left to his quiet suburban flat with his wife, a woman named Amelia with kind eyes but a sharp wit, and soon Sally was helping Lestrade put all of his things inside the newly cleared office. He didn't have much to call his own - some basic supplies, his handgun, and a picture of a smiling little boy, which made Sally wonder where the family photo was. She vaguely remembered the work gossip about a cheating wife and a nasty divorce, but that was months ago and she'd thought that he would have found someone by now (especially with the silver fox craze that was taking over, Sally had had so many people ask for Lestrade's number it was making her want to scream.) Not that it was any of her business, of course.

A young officer popped his head into the office. "Ser- sorry, Inspector Lestrade, there's a man asking for you in the station. Says his name's unimportant. Quite an odd fellow, he's got red hair, carrying an umbrella and looking like a pompous snob, if you ask me. Know him?"

Sally watched in undisguised curiosity as Lestrade huffed out a bemused sigh and walked out the door. Unable to quell her growing interest, Sally followed him out, where she spotted a man with ginger hair and eyes bluer and steelier than ice waiting by the entrance, posture tightly held back against the wall. He visibly relaxed just a tad when he caught sight of Lestrade, leaving Sally to question what their connection was and how the bloody hell Lestrade, famed for being laid-back and unequivocally mellow about things, managed to befriend this posh man who clearly had a stick up his arse. They talked in low tones for a few minutes, and suddenly Lestrade's honest, easygoing manner snapped to bad cop.

"Absolutely not Mycroft," he hissed through clenched teeth, brown eyes hard and stature drawn tighter than a bowstring. "We had a _deal_. And when he honours that deal, then I'll give my end of it, but until then, he's not seeing any of it. I don't care how much you threaten me. My answer is _hell no_."

Mycroft (what an odd name, weirder than even Sherlock) leaned back on his brolly. His look was defeated, a bitter expression Sally had a feeling he didn't get a lot. "I thought you would say that, Detective Inspector. As it's clear I can do no more to plead my brother's case and give Sherlock a second chance, I should take my leave." With one more glance at the unrelenting and glaring cop, the man walked out.

Lestrade hadn't turned all the way around before Sally pounced. "Who was that and why the hell was he bringing up Sherlock?" she spit out, shooting a spiteful look at the door.

The DI sighed, a long, drawn-out one that made Sally feel as if she wasn't going to like what she was about to hear. "He's Sherlock's brother. Works for the government. I promised to let Sherlock in on cases."

" _What_?" Sally practically screeched, barely restraining her voice so it didn't appear as if she was tearing into her superior (which, in hindsight, she was.) "The _junkie_? Tell me you're pulling my leg, Lestrade. Are you _serious_?" The DI merely ran a hand wearily through his greying hair. "Donovan, look, we need him. And I'll only let him come on if he's cleaner than heaven. If he's not, if he's even got one goddamn _smudge_ of cocaine, he's gone. That was the deal."

His words only made her more infuriated. "You made a deal with an addict?" she needled icily, and if looks could kill Lestrade would have been forked. "So much for honest cop."

Lestrade's face turned to stone. "Donovan, I didn't want to have to say this, but keep your place. This isn't your decision to make." He stalked off back to his office, shutting the door with a click behind him. Sally stood furious in the hall.

There was only one thing on her mind: _how the bloody fuck_ was she supposed to work with that utter sod Sherlock Holmes?

XxX

A few cases went by, standard, clean-cut. Family of five found shot to death in their central London flat. Father found to be having an affair with the neighbour (Donovan swore she saw Lestrade's face tighten when he heard that.) Husband and wife had a domestic and the father snapped, shooting his wife and three sons before turning the gun on himself - crime of passion, case closed. Woman with her throat slit in an alleyway. Prodigal son was after the inheritance, and decided to make his mom kick the bucket sooner so he could pay off his gambling debts. Solved. Nothing too over-the-top, just the regular murders NSY faced.

Until the bloodied body of a homeless addict washed ashore of the Thames. He was young, no family or friends to miss him, so the force didn't put nearly so much effort as they would to a loved one in finding the killer, even though it's a mystery how so much blood - the victim's blood - covers the body even though there isn't a single scratch on him. The case went largely ignored until three more bodies decided to show up on the banks of the river. All three were heroin addicts. All three had telltale track marks riddling their arms. All three died of blunt force trauma. All lacked the family to care. And all were bloodied without one mark on them.

Sally held a folder of evidence as she walked meekly into Lestrade's office. The case was wearing him down with the weight of a thousand mocking reporters with insensitive questions, hysterical addicts asking if they're next, and demanding superiors shoving deadlines down their throats. She wasn't shocked to find him passed out on his desk, hand still curled around a mug of coffee. Instead, Sally merely shook her head and gently patted the DI's arm. Immediately he awoke, but the sergeant took one look at the lingering bleariness in his demeanour and bloodshot eyes and decided he was in desperate need to rest. "Greg, go home."

He ignored her and locked his gaze on the files. "That evidence? Give it here, I'll take a look-"

Sally interrupted him. "Greg, don't take this the wrong way, but you're no use beaten and tired. You need some sleep." She nodded her head to the door. "As much as we'd like to, we can't keep running forever. Now, for the good of both of us, go. I'll take care of the rest."

Lestrade sighed and gave a grateful glance at Sally, straightening his shoulders as much as he can (which, Sally was sad to say, wasn't a whole lot) as he left. Sally watched him go before retreating to her own office and sliding into her chair. Cars rushed by outside despite the late hour, and inside the station only a skeleton staff remained to finish their duties. Sally winced when she read the time on her clock - an old-timey thing given by a leery forensics guy, what was his name, Andy? - but Sally was used to working in the dead of night, she was a cop, for Christ's sake. She stifled a yawn (out of sheer willpower she would resist the siren call of sleep), swallowed down a few gulps of the triple shot espresso that had become a nightly ritual, and opened up the folder.

For all the years Sally had spent on the force, she has never seen a case as odd as this. Blood covered the victim, but there were no visible signs of abrasions or wounds that would have lead to such a bleeding. The blood, somehow, was in fact that of the victim, a young twenty-something female named Victoria Price, who died from head trauma. She had been a junkie, with no known associates or kin to care if she died. Which was exactly why Lestrade was more determined than ever to find out just who killed her.

The only person Price might have considered a friend was fellow user Raz, who broke down in tears when he learned of the death and had the very reliable alibi of being in custody for vandalism at the time of Price's murder. Interrogations had revealed nothing except the ridiculous number of one-night stands between the two, a twin sister of Price's who died when she was young, and the tragic train accident that killed Price's parents when she was seventeen, leaving her to drown in a heroin addiction.

It was all so strange. Who killed her? Why? How? All those questions had been uttered by a distraught Raz, who then proceeded to offer the help of the "homeless network", which he proudly proclaimed to be the head of. Suddenly he had brightened, a lightbulb clearly flickering to life in his head. " _Sherlock Holmes!"_ he cried.

Sally's world went a very bright shade of red when she heard that in the video of the interrogation playing across her computer screen. With anger brimming in her throat as she bitterly remembered the words "addiction runs in your family, doesn't it?" Sally rushed over the rest of the video, during which Raz attempted to convince the officer - a stalwart man, Jones - to employ "Shezza" (Sherlock) Holmes. To Sally's relief, Jones didn't take Raz seriously, and soon escorted him outside.

Despite her best efforts, though, Sherlock Holmes was still invading Sally's life. She knew it was only a matter of time before he was on the case. Sally resisted the urge to bang her head on the desk and continued reviewing the case file, but the more she saw the more she was puzzled. None of the murders made sense. The target was clear, but motive and plan still shaky. It eluded the sergeant.

As the hours ticked by, Sally's thoughts turned treacherous - recalling how quickly Sherlock solved the peanut allergy case, how precise his deductions were, how even Raz wanted him to check out the case. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was what the force needed…

It was nearing four in the morning when Sally made her decision, but she was damn well not going to be nice and cheery about it. Her foster mother's words echoed in her ears: "Whatever you do, Sal, never never _ever_ let 'em see they get to you."

XxX

Sally slammed hard on the door to a known drug den in the shadier part of London. She had tracked _him_ down with Raz's help, who she bribed with the pardon of his latest tagging fine. "Holmes, I bloody well know you're in there! I have a case for you, God knows you get off on those!"

The door croaked open, and a sleep-mussed head poked its way out. "You might want to try using my actual name. You said you had a case?" the familiar voice rumbled, still annoyingly posh at the early hour. Sally tamed the urge to slap him.

"Yes, I have a case. Homeless addicts like you, no family, all bloodied with their own blood and not a single mark to tell where it came from. All dead from blunt force trauma to the head."

He stepped further out, his eyes piercing her. She took a step back. "Who said I don't have a home? Or family?"

Sally sputtered for a moment at the thought of that bastard having a _family_ \- and the equally smug bastard at the station didn't count - while Sherlock used the moment of confusion to sidle past her and into the backseat of her squad car. Sally was briefly grateful for his choice of seating before she glared hard at the wall and turned around to drive to the morgue in silent fury.

XxX

Of bloody course, Molly Hooper, the young pathologist at the morgue, was enamoured with Sherlock the moment he walked into the room. With starry eyes she absentmindedly opened the boxes containing the bodies of the victims, all the while her mouth agape as she studied the addict's sickeningly slim form. Sally wanted to throw up when Molly grabbed the autopsy report and took a not-very-discreet glance at Sherlock's arse.

She regretted her choice very, very much.

The bodies hadn't been out for more than five solid minutes before Sherlock began rattling off his series of freakshow deductions (to the clear awe of Molly, poor soul) with the nonchalant and bored tone of a waiter. Sherlock explained how blood was withdrawn from the victims before they were killed, but those pinprints were cleverly disguised as track marks. He also detailed how he knew who the killer was because of a patch of shoe shiner and a pin. When he was done, Molly stood agape once more, whereas in Sally's mind, one word burned like a conflagration as he stood stiff and uncaring.

 _Freak_.

She knew deep down inside that one day there was going to be a body, and Sherlock bloody Holmes was going to be the one who put it there.


End file.
